


Teakettle Love

by kizuke



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Light Dom/sub, Loving Dominant, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Self-Esteem Issues, mostly feelings, soft dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 20:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12689991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kizuke/pseuds/kizuke
Summary: Grantaire doesn't know how to accept affection—but Combeferre, as always, has a plan.





	Teakettle Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [The National](https://open.spotify.com/track/7wTRFTaQWhQ3AoHUWKvGAp).

They stand in front of the bed, Combeferre holding both his hands in his. It’s become a routine by now. Early on, Grantaire had tried to push back—their arrangement never changes; is there really a need to go over this every time? But Combeferre wouldn’t budge, and it had seemed easier then to just play along, and now, oddly, it’s become a comfort.

“Do you know your safeword?” asks Combeferre.

“Robespierre.”

“Good,” says Combeferre, his voice rich with pleasure, and a shudder goes through Grantaire at the sound of it; the rich timbre of it, resonating in the hollow of his ribcage. He could drown in Combeferre’s eyes. Combeferre’s thumb brushes Grantaire’s wrist. “What do you want today, Grantaire?”

“I want what you want.” The words—once so halting—have worn smooth with use; they fall gently into the quiet of the room. Speaking them always smooths the jagged edges of his emotions, lulls his mind into stillness, as if in anticipation of what is to come. “I want to obey you,” he says, “I want to be good for you.”

“Good,” says Combeferre, smiling, and Grantaire shudders again. His breath has gone shallow under the weight of Combeferre’s unflinching gaze. Combeferre tightens his grip on Grantaire’s hands, just a little, grounding him until the shaking passes. “I want you to breathe with me, Grantaire.” He brings their joined right hands up to rest against his own belly, and presses their left hands right over Grantaire’s speeding heart. Combeferre takes a deep, slow breath; Grantaire’s hand rises with it, then falls as Combeferre slowly exhales. Grantaire joins him on the next breath, the warm weight of Combeferre’s hand on his heart reminding him to expand his diaphragm, not his chest. Expand, contract, repeat; the air leaves his lungs, taking his tension with it. He sways slightly forward, and Combeferre rewards him with a kiss, pressing his lips, still curved slightly upward, against Grantaire’s.

Keeping his breaths deep and deliberate, Combeferre presses Grantaire’s hands in a silent indication that he should keep them in their place, then gently extracts his own. He slides them up Grantaire’s arms and over his shoulders, reverent, and down over his clavicle, resting them briefly on his chest, then moving to undo the buttons of his shirt. Grantaire can’t help but watch his long, elegant fingers at work: those perfect surgeon’s hands—hands which save—employed, unfathomably, on undressing Grantaire.

“Look at me, please, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, meeting Grantaire’s eyes briefly through his eyelashes before turning his attention back to his task. Obediently, Grantaire brings his gaze back to Combeferre’s face, to his simple pleasure at uncovering Grantaire’s skin, inch by inch. It’s hard to watch—he wants to look away, wants to close his eyes; but he has to be good, wants to be good for him.

Combeferre undoes the last button, then pushes Grantaire’s shirt down and off his shoulders. He cups his hands around Grantaire’s neck, then slides them over his biceps. “Beautiful,” he says, painfully sincere; Grantaire, looking at his face, can see no qualification to the statement, no hint of doubt—even though Grantaire’s arms are littered with needle marks; even though his chest has very little definition; even though his muscles are obscured by wine-soft layers. He shudders again; Combeferre grips his shoulders, making soothing sounds until the shaking subsides. When he says, “Will you sit for me, please?” Grantaire’s knees fold almost involuntarily, his hand falling away from Combeferre’s skin to curl around the edge of the mattress. “Thank you,” says Combeferre, and sinks to his knees in front of Grantaire.

Grantaire tries to hold back a noise of protest—Combeferre should never, never be on his knees; not for him, not for  _anyone_ —but when Combeferre cradles one of his feet in his hands and bends to kiss his toes, it slips out: “‘Ferre,” shocked, and his foot jerks away and falls to the floor.

Combeferre folds his hands in his lap, his back very straight, and regards him calmly. “Grantaire,” he says, and the disappointment in his voice sets Grantaire trembling uncontrollably, his breaths hitching in nearly-silent sobs. “What do you want? Tell me again.”

Grantaire’s voice wavers, but he manages, however weakly, to say it: “I want what you want.” Slowly, unwillingly, he raises his foot and places it in Combeferre’s cupped hands.

“Very good,” says Combeferre, warm and pleased again, and relief flushes hot through Grantaire’s entire being. “Look at me,” he says—a reminder—and then tall, proud, intelligent, beautiful Combeferre kisses each of his knobbly toes, then presses his smooth cheek against the uneven length of Grantaire’s foot, his hair brushing against Grantaire’s ankle. It’s all Grantaire can do not to pull away; he fights for every ragged breath; fights to keep his eyes on Combeferre, on this, this desecration—but if Combeferre thinks—

“Grantaire.” Combeferre kisses the jut of his ankle bone, kisses his shin, his knee; sets his leg gently down; looks up at him, almost worshipful. “You’re wonderful.”

“No,” says Grantaire—unable to stop the denial from slipping out, his body from cringing slightly away—but he manages, somehow, to keep his leg in Combeferre’s too-gentle grip.

“Yes,” says Combeferre, steady and unyielding. He runs his hands over Grantaire’s calf, kneading his thumbs into the taut muscles. “Your legs, when they dance,” he says, smiling slightly in memory, “you have so much control over your body; you do things I couldn’t hope to do. When you box, when you fence, you move so nimbly; sometimes it seems to me like your feet don’t even touch the ground.” His palms slide firmly up Grantaire’s trembling thighs. “How you look in these jeans,” he continues, rueful. He undoes the button, pulls the zipper down, hooks his fingers into the waistband, and Grantaire levers himself up just enough that Combeferre can tug his jeans and briefs down and off. Combeferre sets them aside on a chair, then comes back to lean over him, running his fingers up from Grantaire’s waist and around to his shoulder blades, a long, searing touch. “Lie down for me,” says Combeferre, and he lays Grantaire gently on the bed, controlling his descent, his arms taking Grantaire’s weight like it’s nothing. He props himself up on one elbow, the better to card his free hand through Grantaire’s hair and to caress Grantaire’s cheek, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s face. “Exquisite,” he says. His voice brooks no argument; he smiles, a little—when Grantaire presses into his touch with little gasping breaths, his thumb brushing gently over Grantaire’s cheekbone—and it’s like a benediction.

Grantaire turns towards him, into him, like he’s the sun itself. Obligingly, Combeferre shifts even closer, letting Grantaire pillow his head on his arm, throwing a leg over Grantaire’s knees, burning-hot all along Grantaire’s side even through his clothes; Grantaire whimpers, feeling the soft rub of the fabric like a brand over his own bare skin. Combeferre kisses his forehead, his temple, the apple of his cheek; kisses, sweetly, his lips. Grantaire is shaking again, a hot tear running down from the corner of his eye and dripping onto the bed, and the tremors only escalate as Combeferre continues, cruelly kind: “Your heart,” he says, touching Grantaire’s left breast, where his heart is beating so fast that Grantaire thinks it might leap right out into Combeferre’s hand; his body arches into the touch, and Combeferre lets his hand drift down, skating along the over-sensitised skin of Grantaire’s abdomen, his inner thigh. “It surprises me every day. How compassionate you are; how perceptive. How much you care. What lengths you’ll go to for our friends.” He rests his forehead on Grantaire’s. “For me.” Combeferre breathes a laugh, like he’s incredulous at his own luck, and the sound sets every one of Grantaire’s nerve endings afire. “That you  _chose_  me—that you chose  _me._ ”

“Always—always—how—Combeferre, please,” Grantaire gasps, and finally, finally, Combeferre curls his beautiful hand around Grantaire’s leaking cock, stroking in time with Grantaire’s shallow, shuddering breaths. Grantaire remembers, after a few moments, to open his eyes, to keep them on Combeferre’s, and the depth of feeling he finds there, the glitter of Combeferre’s dark eyes, pull the words out of him on each desperate exhale: “Say it—you can say it—Combeferre—”

Combeferre, who never falters, falters. “Are you sure? You never—”

“Please,” he pants, chest heaving; his yearning, upturned face and parted lips both an offering and a plea.

Smiling and breathless, Combeferre cradles the back of his head and leans in to kiss him. “I love you,” he says against his lips; pulls back just enough to look into Grantaire’s eyes and say again, unwaveringly, “I love you”; laughs, delighted; says, again, “I love you—I love you,” and Grantaire’s back arches with the force of his pleasure as he comes, laughing too.


End file.
